artificial insemination kit for humans
July 2, 2021
“You need to eat,” my partner said, his gaze fixed elsewhere as he tossed a bag of plain potato chips into my lap before returning to his work call in the bustling airport. I stared at the bag, feeling a wave of frustration wash over me. I really detest plain chips. Tears began to well up, threatening to spill over. Why was I crying in public? I felt so out of place.
But nothing felt right anymore, especially carrying the memory of my lost baby. Just three days earlier, we had gone in for our five-month ultrasound. The sun had shone brightly, warming my shoulders as I walked to the hospital, blissfully unaware of the heartbreak that awaited me. I had been excited about being pregnant—the way my belly rounded out, the anticipation of meeting the little one within me. My husband had been supportive, opening doors and checking in on my cravings. Everything felt good, and for a moment, it seemed like our relationship was healing, softened by the joy of impending parenthood.
Now, sitting alone in the airport, my heart ached as I clutched the bag of chips. My husband didn’t even know I disliked them. I bent my head down, trying to hide my tears behind my hair, wishing I could find something to hold on to before I fell deeper into despair.
“The baby has no heartbeat,” the doctor had said, barely meeting our eyes. I could hardly process the words. “What do you mean?” I had asked, my voice shaky. He explained the procedure we would have to undergo. I nodded, but I couldn’t grasp the reality of the situation. “Tell me again,” I pleaded, but I could see the annoyance flash across his face. “You might want to take some time off work afterward,” he added. Work? I was struggling to understand what had just happened.
“The baby has no heartbeat,” I repeated to myself, as if saying it again might somehow change the meaning. Outside, the world was alive with chatter and sunlight, but it felt alien to me. I was supposed to carry my baby for four more days, and the thought made me feel trapped between two worlds—wanting to hold on and wishing to be free.
After we returned home, I couldn’t bear to stay. “We need to get out of here,” I told my husband. He quickly booked us a weekend at a resort in Arizona, but I spent most of it in bed, unable to find joy in anything. “It’s beautiful outside, Anna,” he would say as he tried to coax me into the sun, but I turned away, leaving him to wander alone.
He wanted to reassure me. “We can try again. The doctor said it’s going to be okay,” he said, but I couldn’t see how. I had envisioned my future with my baby, planned for it, only to have it all stripped away in an instant. “You have to be hopeful,” he urged, but his words only deepened my resentment.
Now, as we waited for our delayed flight back to New York, I sat there, tears flowing over a bag of plain chips.
Suddenly, a hand appeared, offering me a tissue. I looked up to see a woman in her 60s, elegantly dressed in a Chanel suit. Her warm, chocolatey eyes met mine, and for the first time in days, someone wasn’t looking away. “Oh honey, I’m so sorry,” she said softly.
“I lost my baby,” I blurted, instinctively cradling my still swollen belly. “I don’t know why I can’t stop crying,” I confessed, holding up the unopened chips.
“There are moments in life that create a before and after,” she said gently, taking my hand. Her presence was comforting, and as I sobbed, I felt a sense of connection. While my partner paced in the background, I realized I could cling to this stranger’s understanding. For the first time in days, I felt I wasn’t falling.
If you’re navigating similar feelings, you might find comfort in exploring resources on home insemination and pregnancy journeys. Check out this piece on intracervical insemination for further insights. Additionally, Make A Mom offers expert guidance on your fertility journey. And for more detailed information on procedures, the Cleveland Clinic is an excellent resource.